


In So Many Words

by CassLikesFic



Series: Conversations [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, morons to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassLikesFic/pseuds/CassLikesFic
Summary: After many seasons spent traveling with the Witcher, Jaskier had learned at least two things about him. One of which was that Geralt enjoyed dark strong ale, and two, that he didn’t enjoy conversation while he drank it. He didn’t seem to object to hearing Jaskier’s voice, which was good, because silence made Jaskier’s stomach twist itself in anxious knots. If it stretched too long, he would say anything to relieve the agony.Apparently, two and a half pints of cider was his breaking point. Hardly knowing what would come out of his mouth when he opened it, Jaskier looked seriously at Geralt and said, "Do some witchering on me."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Conversations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631728
Comments: 196
Kudos: 1341





	1. Bread

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic Goes Without Saying, from Jaskier's POV. I'll continue to update both of them as I work on the story. 
> 
> I'm...pretty darn stunned at the response to this!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your lovely comments, and thank you for reading!
> 
> (Obviously, Jaskier's POV takes more words, so please be patient for updates on this side of the story.)
> 
> [Come find me on tumblr!](https://poisonousbuttercup.tumblr.com/)

After many seasons spent traveling with the Witcher, Jaskier had learned at least two things about him. One of which was that Geralt enjoyed dark strong ale, and two, that he didn’t enjoy conversation while he drank it. He didn’t seem to object to hearing Jaskier’s voice, which was good, because silence made Jaskier’s stomach twist itself in anxious knots. If it stretched too long, he would say anything to relieve the agony.

Apparently, two and a half pints of cider was his breaking point. Hardly knowing what would come out of his mouth when he opened it, Jaskier looked seriously at Geralt and said, "Do some witchering on me."

Geralt snorted derisively and drank his ale, shaking his head and not deigning to give the question a response. Clearly, Jaskier had made another idiotic choice, but never one to be stopped by a derisive snort, he pushed on.

"Something small. I'm just curious. I've seen your magic all the time on other people." And on _Roach_ , of all things, a sigil on her oats to heat them, on the blanket that covered her at night to keep her warm. He was not stupid enough to be jealous of a _horse_ , but it did needle him a little.

"It's not a party trick, Bard." Six words. Apparently, he’d irritated Geralt enough into speaking a full sentence. A flicker of something moved across Geralt’s face before he spoke again. "Fine." Geralt tore a piece of bread off the chunk he was eating and held it up in front of his eyes. "See this?" It was a nicer loaf than they usually had, but otherwise unremarkable.

Then Jaskier’s life slid sideways out of his hands and directly into one of the seven hells.

Geralt cast the sigil for Axii with his other hand. Jaskier felt the softest brush of Geralt's magic, like deft, warm fingers touching his mind, and heart. Well, that was very pleasant. And then Geralt said... _something_. Jaskier had been paying attention to the graceful movements of his gloved fingers tracing the sign in the air and enjoying the touch of magic against his mind.

And then the piece of bread in his hand...changed.

Jaskier didn't think he'd ever truly appreciated the potential beauty in a baked good before, and now he was filled with longing.

Everything he had ever wanted in his life had narrowed down to a scrap of wheat and yeast and salt, and he knew without a doubt that Geralt would never, _ever_ , hand the scrap to him willingly.

...oh.

Oh _no_.

Oh fuck and _double_ fuck.

He felt his tongue glue itself to the roof of his mouth and all words die in his throat. It was a test, and no different from any other moment he shared with Geralt. He knew without a doubt that if Geralt handed him the piece of bread, he would make a truly embarrassing scene in the middle of the tavern with lips and teeth and tongue. Instead, Geralt pulled the piece of bread farther away and eyed Jaskier’s face, studying it like it was another monster. Jaskier immediately tamped down any outward sign of longing, studiously keeping his eyes on Geralt instead of the bread.

Apparently, whatever Geralt found, satisfied. "Didn't work." Or didn’t.

"How do you know?" Was he supposed to fling himself on the crust like a starving pigeon?

He was seriously tempted. He couldn’t help stealing a brief glance at the bread before looking back to Geralt, keeping his expression as smooth and pleasant as he could manage.

"Because you always look at me like that." Geralt tossed the bread aside, and Jaskier’s resolve crumbled into fine ash. He couldn’t help it. Even if he could never taste it, he wanted to know what it felt like under his fingers. He slipped the crust into his pocket, where it sat like a coal. He knew it was there. Geralt knew it was there. But he didn’t take it back from him. Perhaps as long as he didn’t eat it, he could keep it.

The guilt became overwhelming moments later, until sweat trickled down the back of Jaskier’s spine and stuck his shirt to his skin. He couldn’t reach to touch the bread, but he felt it against his skin. He was certain at any moment, Geralt was going to take him by the scruff of the neck and shake him like a puppy for trying to hide it.

He barely waited for the door to close in their shared room before he tore it out of his pocket and pushed it into Geralt’s hands. Everything he’d ever wanted in the world, but he couldn’t have it, Geralt had _said so._ And he had disrespected that, just to have a piece of bread closer for a few minutes. He felt disgusted with himself.

"What's this?" Geralt grumbled, looking over the piece of crust before discarding it. Discarding it like it was garbage. He hadn’t cared one way or the other that Jaskier had had it in his pocket. He might have eaten it.

"...You said I couldn't have it. I wanted to hold it for a while, anyway." Jaskier said flatly, feeling numb and stupid. His eyes tracked the crust all the way to the small pail, without moving to retrieve it.

Geralt cursed quietly under his breath in response. His hand moved, and suddenly the bread was just bread, and Jaskier could breathe again.

Unfortunately, Geralt was still Geralt.


	2. Cider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without the sigil of course, bread was bread. However, Jaskier found himself with a new appreciation for the stuff. He was deeply dissatisfied when none of it lived up to the yearning hunger he’d had for that stupid scrap of crust under Geralt’s magic.
> 
> Jaskier did what he always did when he was frustrated, aching with longing, and dissatisfied with the substitutes he filled his mouth with instead of the one thing he actually wanted to.
> 
> He wrote a song.

Geralt continued to be Geralt over the next few days, with no change.

He didn’t mention Jaskier’s embarrassing actions under the effects of Axii, which Jaskier was grateful for. He left quite a few empty silences to be filled, and didn’t snap at Jaskier when he filled them, which he was also grateful for.

Without the sigil of course, bread was bread. However, Jaskier found himself with a new appreciation for the stuff. He was deeply dissatisfied when none of it lived up to the yearning hunger he’d had for that stupid scrap of crust under Geralt’s magic.

Jaskier did what he always did when he was frustrated, aching with longing, and dissatisfied with the substitutes he filled his mouth with instead of the one thing he actually wanted to.

He wrote a song.

_ I held her close against my chest _

_ Her scent and touch give me no rest _

_ I know no peace when we’re apart _

_ The miller’s daughter, my own dear heart _

By the end of the song, of course, the white haired, hard eyed Miller threw his golden haired daughter into a well rather than see her ruined by the devilish wiles of a wandering bard. She drowned and he could not save her, but yearned for her in his every moment, waking and dreaming. No other lover could satisfy his longing for the smell of fresh baked bread on her skin.

It was some of his worst work.

It was wildly popular.

The absolute worst part was that  _ Geralt  _ seemed to  _ like _ the tripe, paying close attention to the words. Frowning at the end each time as though listening for something only he could hear in the lyrics.

Geralt’s newfound attention to his singing was...worrisome. But he always rolled his eyes and then ignored the ballads that were obviously about him, and never paid attention to the ones that had been penned with him in mind. Those were mainly about swanmanes or faeries or vampires. Pale strong maidens with unearthly beauty, cold and untouchable, who could not be moved by the love of a mortal man.

Geralt set a cup in front of Jaskier, the Witcher nodding to himself with a grunt when Jaskier took a sip and made a pleased sound at the taste of pear spiced cider, sweet and cool on his tongue. 

“Do you always turn things you want but can’t have into songs?” The cider abruptly turned cloying with an edge of bitterness in his mouth. He fought not to choke on it. Of course. The most words Geralt had directed at him so far, and it had to be a maddening, far too  _ perceptive _ question. 

“Hm?” Jaskier feigned indifference as best he can, kept his breathing even. Pretended he wasn’t hearing the echoes of that question over, and over, and over. Shredded years worth of songs about swanmanes and sidhe into paper ribbons. Vowed never to sing about anything or anyone with white hair ever again unless they were explicitly named and described in detail as Not Geralt. He looked at every single patron in the inn instead.

There was a tall sellsword by the bar. Broad shouldered. Long hair. Not as lean in the waist, not half as graceful, but if he closed his eyes, he’d do.

He’d waited too long to answer, and Geralt was still looking at him. Gods above, what had the question been?  _ Do you always turn things you want but can’t have into songs? _

“Usually, yes. I’m a  _ bard _ , that’s what we do.” He finally stole a glance at Geralt, kept his tone light and his expression faintly amused. Geralt followed his gaze to the pretty blonde haired server drying her hands on her apron, to the right of the sellsword. He couldn’t help a teasing follow up question after throwing a cheeky wink to the woman, who blushed prettily and grinned. _She might be a better balm, after all._ “What’s gotten under your skin, then?” 

Geralt responded with silence instead of jealousy, finishing his ale and heading for the stairs up to his room.

“See you at breakfast.” Jaskier murmured.

He took another long drink of the cider before crossing the room to speak to a woman with soft skin that smelled like freshly baked bread, the first steps in a dance he knew very well.


	3. Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt was never in a rush to get out of the damn bath.
> 
> It was the one time when Jaskier absolutely did not trust himself to speak, because who knew what would fall out of his mouth. He still woke up in the occasional cold panic sweat thinking back on his “lovely bottom” comment the night of the banquet in Cintra. Jaskier had a long conversation with himself after that, and in no uncertain terms told himself that if he couldn’t bear the sight of his traveling companion nude and vulnerable, he had two options. 
> 
> He could leave the room, or he could Not Look and Absolutely Not Talk.

Bath day was always the best, and the worst, day of Jaskier’s life

* * *

Positive things about bath day were as follows:

Geralt, naked in a tub of steaming water.

Usually a very small tub, which meant seeing more skin than the usual small triangle of Geralt’s pale neck and chest.

The pleasant scent of whatever soap the inn prided itself on using. Sometimes lemons, sometimes lavender. Once, it had been rose, and Jaskier had been unable to sleep that night. Today it was fragrant cedarwood.  


Negative things about bath day:

Geralt, naked, in a tub of steaming water. Untouchable, uncaring for modesty. Unruffled by his presence in the room.

Geralt was  _ never _ in a rush to get out of the damn bath. He settled into it with an appreciative groan, like he was going to get the worth of every penny of the coin spent on the tub. Often with a cup of ale in his hand. Sometimes he fell asleep, eyed closed, breathing deep and even. Then, Jaskier would retrieve the cup from his loose fingers while the bard silently cursed his life, his heart, and his own stupid, _stupid_ prick.  


It was the one time when Jaskier absolutely did not trust himself to speak, because who knew what gibberish would fall out of his mouth when faced with a naked Geralt. He still woke up in the occasional cold panic sweat thinking back on his “lovely bottom” comment the night of the banquet in Cintra. Jaskier had a long conversation with himself after that, and in no uncertain terms told himself that if he couldn’t bear the sight of his traveling companion nude and vulnerable, he had two options. 

He could leave the room, or he could Not Look and Absolutely Not Talk.

He wasn’t strong enough to simply excuse himself whenever Geralt inexplicably decided that monster gore required soaking off instead of a cursory wash with a rag at a basin. He found things that took attention and focus, and, more importantly, required Not Looking at Geralt to attend to on Witcher Wash Day.

He had restrung his lute, even though the strings were fine and would last for another month. He had gone through his notebook of songs and, pressing down firmly with a pencil, scratched a dark line through the titles of any love song that was, however obliquely, about Geralt. Geralt was still happily submerged in the cooling, murky water of the tub, and showed no inclination to get up. His eyes were closed, head tipped back against the wooden edge, knees splayed out. Damn it, he was looking again. Jaskier grabbed the closest shirt he could find, turned his back, and sat cross legged on the floor.

It was one of Geralt’s. There was a large tear in the underarm, big enough to poke at least three fingers through. It would take time, and lots of tiny stitches and attention to mend properly. If he did it right, Geralt wouldn’t even notice he’d mended it at all. Perfect.

“Why can’t you have me?”

Jaskier jerked and stabbed himself in the finger with the needle. The low rumble of Geralt’s voice hit him in his stomach like a sucker punch, and the question sank in a moment later. Jaskier turned one shoulder and his head toward Geralt, but otherwise kept his body carefully angled away.

“I think-” Jaskier began carefully, raising one eyebrow. 

What on earth could he follow that with?  _ Because you don’t like me? Because I’ve never seen you even  _ consider  _ having sex with anyone? Because the only creature you speak fondly and easily to is your  _ horse _? _

Maybe the question didn’t mean what he thought it meant. That had to be it. He’d been known to extrapolate intentions from innocent statements before.

“That I don’t understand that question.” Jaskier finished conclusively.

“You look at me like I’m something you want but you can’t have.” Fuck and double fuck. Naked, talkative, and _ observant _ . He almost missed the days when the most words he’d hear were something along the lines of a grunt and a sharp  _ shut up, Bard. _ “Why?"

...perhaps not as observant as he had originally thought. The why should be obvious, but apparently it wasn’t.

“You’re my friend.” Jaskier tried on that answer, and abruptly realized that although he referred to Geralt that way often enough, the man had never actually agreed or said that he was  _ Jaskier’s _ friend.

“Mm.” It wasn’t an agreement or a disagreement. It might have just been Geralt acknowledging that yes, Jaskier made a statement that he considered Geralt a friend. Certainly the sound wasn’t a hearty affirmation of their years long friendship.

“I’m…” Jaskier trailed off.  _ A persistent irritation to you. Unwanted, but never conclusively rejected. Trailing along behind you like a stray dog you made the mistake of feeding once, hoping for a friendly pat. _ Jaskier did his best to sum up his appraisal of the situation as neutrally as he could.“...a bard. An annoying one. In your company still due to your long suffering forbearance of me.”

“I like your company.” This was, as it were, breaking news to Jaskier. He was stunned silent for a long moment, searching for any rebuttal that wasn’t flat out telling Geralt he wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all the man who had traveled by his side for the better part of 4 years.

“...you hate my singing.” Jaskier concluded at last, with an air of finality. That, he was on solid ground with. He waited for another hm of agreement.

“I like it fine.” Jaskier had to press his thumb against the small point of pain, beating like an exposed heart in his fingertip, to distract himself from the words.

He waited for the bleeding to stop before he took up the mending again.

Not Looking, and Not Talking.  



	4. Shared Bedroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier found numerous small chores to delay laying down as long as he could. Roach’s already glossy coat needed brushing. He filled pails of snow, setting them to melt by the fire so they could both wash some of the smell of the horse from their skin. There was more firewood to be gathered and added to the sizeable stack next to the fire. Then kindling. Then the light was fading, and Jaskier had to admit that he was truly exhausted and there was nothing to be done for it.
> 
> He settled himself against Geralt’s warmth and let himself pretend for a moment. The feeling wasn’t exactly good, but like running his fingers along a scrap of bread when he wanted to devour it instead, there a was satisfaction to be found in it. The closeness was comfortable, and Geralt had never been uneasy with Jaskier in his arms. He’d never woken up with so much as an inappropriate poke at his hip.

Winter was in the air and Jaskier was not looking forward to its arrival. The wind was growing bitterly cold, biting at his face and hands. The ground grew colder and harder, enough that each step sent an ache of pain up his legs after each step. Frustrated with Jaskier’s slowing pace, Geralt had tugged him up onto Roach’s back without a word, silently bracketing him with his arms.

If Jaksier thought bath days had been hell, riding in front of the man with hip and thigh jostling together in silence was infinitely worse. Jaskier demurred during the cold night that followed, thinking that laying next to the Witcher aching with heat was indescribably worse than laying across the fire from him, aching with the cold.

When he woke with snowflakes in his eyelashes and strong hands lifting him from the small, snug spot he’d finally made for himself, he knew that winter had arrived. From now on, he’d be spending the nights frantically reciting noble bloodlines in his head until he bored himself to sleep.

Geralt didn’t ask that night if Jaskier wanted to share a bedroll. Bards were weak and delicate creatures that apparently needed coddling to survive cold nights. Geralt arranged their bedrolls together, doubling the blankets with a sharp snap of the cloth and a glance at Jaskier that dared him to complain about it. To Jaskier’s surprise, he watched Geralt trace the same sigil he used to warm Roach’s blanket on their shared bedroll. Perhaps he’d gotten tired of Jaskier’s cold feet tucked against his calves.

Jaskier found numerous small chores to delay laying down as long as he could. Roach’s already glossy coat needed brushing. He filled pails of snow, setting them to melt by the fire so they could both wash some of the smell of the horse from their skin. There was more firewood to be gathered and added to the sizeable stack next to the fire. Then kindling. Then the light was fading, and Jaskier had to admit that he was truly exhausted and there was nothing to be done for it.

He settled himself against Geralt’s warmth and let himself pretend for a moment. The feeling wasn’t exactly good, but like running his fingers along a scrap of bread when he wanted to devour it instead, there a was satisfaction to be found in it. The closeness was comfortable, and Geralt had never been uneasy with Jaskier in his arms. He’d never woken up with so much as an inappropriate poke at his hip.

_ High dukes of the fragmented kingdom. _ Jaskier watched the fire consume some of the fruits of his efforts, dried lichen flaring on twisted twigs.  _ Władysław II, the Exile. Bolesław IV, the Curly. Why ‘the Curly’?...bollocks, don't get stuck on that. Mieszko III, the Old. Casimir II, the Just, Leszek I, the White. White, like the Witcher? No. Władysław III, called Spindleshanks. Mieszko IV, Tanglefoot. Then...Bolesław II, the Horned? No, Bolesław came after Henryk II, the Pious, which meant he’d forgotten Henryk I somewhere...have to start over… _

Jaskier could feel his eyes growing heavy, and his body growing quiet. It was a good feeling. He was comfortable and warm, nestled against Geralt like two spoons in a drawer. Geralt’s arm was under his cheek like a firm, horse smelling pillow.

“Why can’t a  _ bard  _ -” Geralt put deliberate emphasis on the word  _ Bard _ , leaving no doubt to whom he was referring and snapping Jaskier completely out of his comfortable reverie. “-have a Witcher?”

Damn and double damn and triple fuck and also shitting fuck  _ damn _ . Jaskier was wide awake now, and no longer comfortable.

“It’s not that you’re a Witcher.” Jaskier snapped instantly, then bit back the rest of his response. _I can’t have_ you _because_ **you** _don’t want_ **me**. Jaskier didn’t go where he wasn’t wanted, at least in terms of bedrooms and bedmates. He liked an enthusiastic, unequivocal invitation. Not saying no was no substitute for a breathy, eager yes.

“You don't like men for partners?” 

Jaskier stared at the fire and conducted a frantic inventory of recent and past partnerships. He searched for some clue as to which god (or god’s child) he might have accidentally taken up with and subsequently pissed off thoroughly enough to deserve this. That led him through a mental parade of several broad shouldered men with long hair and sword calloused hands.  _ That _ indicated a disturbing and embarrassingly predictable pattern in his recent choices.

“I like men for partners just fine. Same as I like women.” He muttered at last. He did like both, in equal measures, for entirely different and equally pleasing reasons. None of which were helping him in this moment  _ in the least _ .

“Not the kind of man you like, then.” Geralt was apparently going to press on this bruise until he was satisfied with  _ why _ ,  _ exactly _ , Jaskier didn’t find him attractive. Jaskier didn’t have the wits to adequately lie, not with Geralt laying so close and easy behind him.

“ _ Gods above _ , why are you gnawing on this like a dog with a bone?!” Jaskier huffed, feeling his face grow hotter.  _ Why now? Why here? Why ask me at all? _ Geralt had never paid any interest to his partners or bedmates before. Often he would move to leave the second he noted Jaskier’s interest fell on someone attractive in an inn. 

“Because I want you.” Geralt said simply. Four words had never had such an impact on Jaskier in his entire life. It knocked the wind out of him, chilled and heated his skin at the same time. “If there’s a reason you don’t, or think you shouldn’t, I want to understand. If it bothers you to speak of, it’s fine.”

There was no good response to that that Jaskier could provide, shocked to his core and ringing like a bell. There were responses that would end with Jaskier walking to the nearest town in the falling snow, or there was silence.

He chose silence. To calm his heartbeat, even his breathing, settle his mind, Jaskier resumed his litany of monarchs.  _ Henryk I the Bearded, followed by Henryk II the Pious. Followed by Geralt, the White Wolf, who wants to know why I don’t think I should want him.  _ Followed by a faltering explanation, followed by a breaking heart, followed by walking the road alone without the companionable silence he’d become accustomed to filling. Like dropping coins in a well and wishing for more wishes instead of what you wanted. Eventually, with thousands of wishes, you’d have to make one for  _ something  _ that mattered.

“Geralt?” Jaskier began softly. The Witcher was still and steady behind him, breathing deep and even.

“Mm.” A sleepy grunt was his reply.

“...nothing, go back to sleep.” He could tell him in the morning, why. Over breakfast. Maybe a decent night’s sleep would make all of this make more sense.

“Hm.” There was pleasure in that sound. Jaskier was almost sure of it this time. Geralt’s arm tightened a little bit around his waist, and all thoughts of fragmented kingdom dukes fled for good.

It was a long, restless time until dawn.


	5. I Want You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt stirred at the sound of food cooking, glanced around the packed campsite and at his cared for horse. And then met the sight of Jaskier cooking breakfast with an eloquent expression that stated clearly, without words, What the actual fuck, Bard.
> 
> Jaskier dished out the eggs and half burnt bread onto two plates. Without waiting for Geralt to scold him for touching his horse, or his things, or his jealously guarded cooking supplies. Neither of them would be able to talk while eating, but Jaskier’s breakfast disappeared far too quickly without him actually tasting any of it. Finally, there was no more food on his plate, and no more excuse not to say something in response to last night. Jaskier cleared his throat. It was very important that he understood perfectly what had been said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna go ahead and tag this one "morons to lovers" now. 
> 
> Language gets a bit more crude in this chapter.

The snow had stopped falling, and the sky was finally a light enough gray to be a believable excuse for wakefulness.

Jaskier slipped Geralt’s grasp, mind still spinning. He rekindled the fire, coaxing the embers into a blaze before seeing to Roach’s breakfast and heating water for a morning wash. Anything to keep his hands busy and his mind blank. He had packed up the entire camp around Geralt, and when nothing was left but the bedrolls and blankets, he determinedly started to make breakfast.

No sense in starting the road alone with an empty stomach.

Geralt stirred at the sound of food cooking, glanced around the packed campsite and at his cared for horse. And then met the sight of Jaskier cooking breakfast with an eloquent expression that stated clearly, without words, _What the actual fuck, Bard._

Jaskier dished out the eggs and half burnt bread onto two plates. Without waiting for Geralt to scold him for touching his horse, or his things, or his jealously guarded cooking supplies. Neither of them would be able to talk while eating, but Jaskier’s breakfast disappeared far too quickly without him actually tasting any of it. Finally, there was no more food on his plate, and no more excuse not to say something in response to last night. Jaskier cleared his throat. It was very important that he understood perfectly what had been said.

"I think I'm still not understanding. When you say you _want_ me." He ran his hands over his stomach, thinking of the more softly muscled body underneath his own clothes, his strength from the road but certainly not a match for Geralt. _Why me? Why now?_ "What exactly does that...er. Mean, to you?" 

“What does it mean to you?” Geralt countered quickly, deft as a fencer. _Justify why I should want you, then. Why should I need a reason? What reason can you give me._

“You didn’t answer my question.” On the defensive, Jaskier parried back. Geralt frowned deeply at him, then seemed to surrender the point.

“I want you.” Geralt repeated, raising an eyebrow. As though he was certain Jaskier had never heard the word _want_ before. Geralt set down the plate he was working on cleaning, and looked at Jaskier with his elbows on his knees. Jaskier was physically and mentally unprepared for the experience of Geralt’s eyes traveling over him, _with interest._ To make things worse, he continued, gritting out the words deliberately, relentlessly. “I want to fall asleep with you next to me when it’s not cold. Wake up with you. Have your scent on my clothes. I think about kissing you for too long, my prick gets hard.” 

* * *

Jaskier wished he could be the man he was moments earlier. A man who hadn't heard _Geralt of Fucking Rivia_ describe how his prick got hard when he thought of _kissing_ Jaskier for too long. Accompanied with a descriptively obscene gesture of taking care of said prick.

A better man, who had not suddenly decided that he was absolutely willing to admit he wanted this man whether or not Geralt liked him.

A more innocent man.

A man without a painfully hard erection.

* * *

“You know. _Want_.” Geralt repeated, carefully and clearly. And somewhere in the back of his addled brain, Jaskier thought dimly, more loudly. 

Jaskier had abruptly stopped thinking with the brain between his ears. He prayed that some power of speech, or at the very least, basic decision making, would return before Geralt turned away.

Or Jaskier woke up.

Whichever came first.

* * *

Unfortunately, whatever reaction he was _supposed_ to have that would continue the utter surprise of Geralt speaking- speaking bluntly, directly, and dirtily- about _him_ \- that reaction came half a minute later than it needed to. Geralt held up both his hands in a placating gesture, as though he might have _offended_ Jaskier by mentioning it.

“It’s fine if you don’t. If you do, though. You don’t have to look at me like I’m that crust of bread. You can have me.” Jaskier stared in utter bafflement as Geralt began calmly eating breakfast again. As though Geralt had finished commenting idly on the snowfall stopping, promising a clear day’s ride ahead. As though the words **_you can have me_ ** stabbing through Jaskier’s stomach was no more remarkable than saying _it might be_ _colder today_.

The cherry on top of this utterly baffling parfait of sexual frustration, blunt words, and total mildness from Geralt were his following comment and action.

“Thank you for cooking.” Geralt grunted affectionately, patting Jaskier’s shoulder.


	6. I Love You

Jaskier finally spurred himself into action enough to string a few words together. 

They weren’t good words. But at least he was able to unstick his tongue and say them out loud.

“Geralt, you can’t just say a thing like that and then finish breakfast like you commented on the weather!” To his own ears, he sounded peevish and offended, rather than the mild, seductive tone he’d had planned. Geralt, unruffled, looked at him steadily and calmly.

“Why not?” _Why not, indeed?_ What kind of fool was going to stop a Witcher from saying what he wanted to? Especially when the first time Geralt decided to speak more than four words together, all those words were about wanting _him_. 

“...It- you know, it’s just-” He exhaled a soft breath, trying to swallow around his beating heart in his throat. His grip on his tongue slipped for a moment, and the next words out of his mouth were soft and startled. “...what do you mean, if you think about kissing me for too long?” 

“Try not to when you’re in front of me on Roach, or when we’re sharing a bed. Alone? Sure. I like your mouth.”

That led to a few images that Jaskier had trouble ignoring. Geralt liked his mouth. Geralt thought about kissing him. Geralt very deliberately did _not_ think about kissing him in any situation where Jaskier’s body was pressed close against him and he could easily make his interest known.

“...Geralt, I’m _very_ confused right now.” Which was nothing but the unvarnished truth.

“Kissing.” Geralt repeated slowly. He didn’t move closer, or slip one of his strong arms around Jaskier’s waist. Didn’t provide an example for him, which suddenly Jaskier was wishing desperately for. “Putting your mouth on mine, opening my lips, sometimes there’s tongue or teeth. Hand on or above the knee. Kissing? You sing about it often enough.” Jaskier abruptly realized that actions were better than words, in certain situations. If the Witcher had taken even half a step forward while he’d spoken those words, Jaskier might have been prompted to take action himself. As it was, his face was burning.

If this had been a song, Geralt would have finished that statement with a passionate demonstration, taking Jaskier’s chin in his hand and showing him exactly what he meant by _tongue_ and _teeth._

"...Right." Jaskier said quietly, blushing hotly as though no one had ever kissed him before. As though this was the first time he’d ever truly considered what the act of kissing actually meant. "That's what I thought you meant."

"Why ask, then?" And then Geralt did the absolute worst thing he could, after that question.

He turned and walked away, packing up what was left of the camp as though the conversation had ended to his satisfaction.

Jaskier was standing there, unkissed, head spinning, gathering up what was left of his shredded wits with shaking hands. He had to say _something_. He stamped over to where Geralt was neatly folding up the still warm blankets. When Geralt looked up at him, Jaskier had to tighten his hands into fists and keep them on his hips. Geralt kneeling on the ground and looking up at him was enough to take any remaining sane thoughts and toss them vigorously out the window.

“I asked because you rarely put more than six words together at a time, and then you just drop _I want you_ on me like tossing a boulder in a small pond! And you go on to elaborate about kissing as though I’ve never heard the word and-and-and-” Jaskier was literally flailing about because he had no idea what else to do. Because he certainly couldn’t just _kiss_ Geralt.

Geralt’s response was the worst thing Jaskier had ever experienced, and that included hearing the previous response. Before that, the measuring stick he'd used had been the experience of being beaten with his own lute.

“I won’t again. Don’t worry.” He patted him gently on the shoulder again, moving to strap the bundles of cloth to Roach’s back. “You’re safe with me.”

Wait.

The words penetrated the fog of bubbling emotions and thick desire swirling around what Jaskier was sure was his one remaining brain cell. Did Geralt truly think that _Jaskier_ wasn’t interested? That he needed reassurance that his travel companion wouldn’t mention _wanting_ and _kissing_ again. That Geralt had considered these questions and statements for a long time, and not finding the reaction he’d hoped for, locked them away to Never Be Spoken Again.

“You don’t even like me.” Jaskier managed to add after a long silence,staring at Geralt’s broad shoulders. Because he couldn’t think of an instance that would merit this kind of desire, gone unspoken for who knows how long. “At least not enough to _want_ me.”

Geralt immediately stopped talking, turned, and fixed Jaskier with his eyes.

“I don’t...like you enough to want you?” He repeated, slowly and carefully. Again, as though they didn’t share a common language. Maybe they hadn’t.

“No! You’ve never- why would I think that you did?” 

Geralt paused, studying Jaskier.

“I love you.” He said, then added almost as an afterthought, “I thought you knew.”

Jaskier stood stunned. It was as though Geralt had taken the entirety of their time traveling together, shaken the bag holding it roughly, and dumped it all out on the ground at Jaskier’s feet. Several of the pieces fell into place, leaving him staring wide eyed at the man watching him neutrally. Geralt looked like he was waiting for confirmation of something he already knew about Jaskier as well, with no unease at all about his statement.

“Hm!” Jaskier responded, then, with deep feeling, “ _Fuck_.”


End file.
